


Pushing Past Daisies

by littlelovegoblin



Category: Teen Wolf (TV)
Genre: BAMF Stiles, Buried Alive, I Wrote This Instead of Sleeping, Stiles Stilinski Needs a Hug
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-03-29
Updated: 2020-03-29
Packaged: 2021-03-01 00:54:36
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,595
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/23376469
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/littlelovegoblin/pseuds/littlelovegoblin
Summary: "His throat clenches tightly as the realisation dawns on him. This room is much, much smaller than he thought. It was no more than a box. Well it technically is a box. A coffin. It's a coffin."
Comments: 4
Kudos: 47





	Pushing Past Daisies

Stiles awakens with a raspy gasp. The room is pitch black, the stuffy air fills his lungs. He lays on his back trying to breathe through the throbbing ache that courses throughout his body. His head pounds harshly and it takes him a moment to remember how to breathe. He grits his teeth and braces himself pushing himself up on trembling arms and off of the cold wooden floor.

*THUNK*

Stiles yelps and stars bounce around in the darkness. In disbelief he tries again. The results were the same. Stiles knows that he shouldn't feel as surprised as he does. Let's just blame it on the headache.

Almost in disbelief he reaches above him and touched smooth wood only a few inches from his face. His eyes widen comically at this discovery, hands still against the cold surface, blindly touching, feeling for a handle or opening but only finding more wood.

He's in a fucking... he's..this...... can't. He can't. His throat clenches tightly as the realisation dawns on him. This room is much, _much_ smaller than he thought. It was no more than a box. Well it technically is a box. A coffin. It's a _coffin_.

This situation, this realization starts to wash over him, overwhelming and suffocating. His breathing picks up, suddenly desperate to gulp in the trapped stale air. His heart hammering away painfully while cold fingers dig into clammy palms. All he could hear is his scared gasps and the rush of blood in his ears. For a moment the unseen walls close in even further.

"Ok. Ok, ok, ok. OK. Let's think. Gotta _think,"_ Stiles’ brow furrows deeply trying to bring his focus back, "Right. I'm- I'm in a coffin. Pretty sure that means I'm six feet under then."

Saying it aloud makes his heart palpitate painfully. Sweat beads along his forehead.

"Come on Stilinski, stay calm. Can't die here ok? Calm. Calm...calm...Fuck! Gotta get out."

Taking slow and admittedly shaky breaths, Stiles counts his fingers, (just to check, just to kill off that tiny hope and keep thinking). His current status is one bitch of a hard pill to swallow, but he wrestles his thoughts down to something closer to a calmer state of mind. He can't afford to panic or waste time, not with his limited air supply. A voice in the back of his head almost thanks his past traumatic predicaments for making it somewhat easier... almost like practice, to remember to focus on the situation and not his panic. That's a little messed up, it almost makes him laugh.

Panic starting to subside, he finally recalls the existence of his pack.

"Ah for fu- how did I forget the pack?! They might already be halfway down digging me out," a thin laugh drags from his lips, was it just the residing panic or was the air getting harder to breathe? 

"Really, how am I always the damsel in distress, this is just getting embarrassing."

His voice wavers. Dammit, he knows he can't rely on them right now and wait to see if they come clawing their way through the wooden panels. It's too naive and he's been through Way. Too. Damn. Much. To be thinking like that anymore. 

Stiles swallows the knot of nerves settled in his throat. Running his hands over his body he took note of what he still had on him and in his pockets. He still has all his clothes on, and shoes thank god. No phone... what feels like a broken matchstick and lint... Very helpful, yeah.

Tapping against wood anxiously, he struggles to recall how long he's been out, but he comes up blank. The last thing he can really remember was grocery shopping. He was packing his boot with bags of healthy foods. Lots of vegetables and some tofu, dad’s “favourite”. Beyond that it gets hazy. He can't even guess how long ago that could've been. Stiles strains to think of much else but thinks he can vaguely recall getting knocked out just as his fingertips brushed the jeep’s door handle... but that could just be his mind trying to fill in the blanks...

That sliver of panic starts creeping back in, buzzing like static under his skin. It threatening to overwhelm him once more... _Remember to focus Stilinski_.

Stiles thinks through his options, not like he has many to consider though.

If the pack are already on their way or nearby, maybe screaming could get their attention, if they can't already hear his heartbeat. However.. The residual dizziness swimming around his brain told him all he needs to know about his remaining air supply.

The only other thing he could do, (besides waiting to be rescued like an idiot) is to bust himself out. He doesn’t have a choice with all things considered, it’s do or die now. He can remember reading an old survival blog a while back and it did in fact have some tips regarding being buried alive. What luck, right?

No time like the present. Stiles shifts in the cramped space and wrestles his flannel off leaving it over his head, awkwardly tieing the open holes securely closed. 

The feeling of the fabric sticking to his sweat coated skin was suffocating. Breathing through the cotton feels more difficult than he thought it should, his heart beats erratically. Stiles taps his fingers rhythmically on the smooth wood. Counting. Calming down. However, this smothering fabric will ironically keep his airways clear as he dug himself to freedom.

Stiles quickly moves on, keeping on track. Focus. Bracing his arms against the cold sides of the coffin, Stiles breathes in and out, kicking the roof with all the force he could muster. He kicked it hard. Stiles winces at the bruising sensation left tingling through his foot.

The roof doesn't budge, but it does creak and that’s all the encouragement he needs. 

Again.

He kicks again and again. He keeps kicking until his muscles were burning and his breathing was uneven. Bit by bit, soil starts leaking from the brittle slats into the confines of his little prison. It's intimidating, to be completely honest, he doesn’t even know if what he’s doing will save him or if he’s just following some internet bullcrap. He’ll be damned if he’s going to stop now though, adrenaline is already pulsing through his veins and for now, that’s all he needs. 

Ignoring his light-headed brain and letting the adrenaline surge him on Stiles continues kicking and eventually the cheap wood met its match and the slats broke off, clattering onto hi **s** legs followed by a hefty thump of dirt. Stiles, smiling a shakey but victorious smile, can't help the broken sob of relief.

Reaching down, Stiles grapples for the broken edges of the slats with one hand Wiggling his other arm against the slats above his face. He pulls as hard as he can. The slats are stubborn but against Stiles resolve to survive their willpower falls short and eventually they break off. With splinters in his palm and cut on his arm, he doesn’t even hesitate to break another.

With both hands the teenager pulls dirt into the coffin, up towards the top around his head. Packing it by his head, a violent shiver wracks his body, he can feel the cold dampness of the soil through the fabric of his flannel. Great. Cold and moist to match the rest of his body. 

Forcing his way through the dirt, doing his best to paw the dirt down and clamour his way up, Stiles sees the value in his makeshift head covering as the fabric, while damp and uncomfortable, keeps his airways from being clogged with the dirt. Using his whole body to wriggle and claw his way up, it’s hard not to panic when his entire body becomes enveloped in the heavy soil, any air he did have is now swallowed by earth. A prickle of fear runs along his spine. His lungs are burning. _He has to keep moving_.

As Stiles wriggles and struggles through the dirt, the clay-like soil feels encapsulating. Even moving his hands is a fight. Exhaustion creeps into his bones. ‘Don’t even _think_ about stopping now Stilinski’.

He couldn’t precisely say how long he had been digging for. Perhaps it was the lack of oxygen or his potential concussion but it feels as though it has taken anywhere from minutes to hours to drag himself up through the dirt. So as his fingertips finally breakthrough and greet the unresisting air a shock of adrenaline from his renewed hope pushes him to fight through the final stretch. His heartbeat hammers harshly against his ribs as he claws the rest of his way through the dirt. Stiles breaches the surface, his greedy lungs gulp in the fresh air filling the silence with his gasps. Stiles continues to clammer forward the rest of his body wriggling out behind him.

The soil covered teen flops bonelessly next to the burrow he created, adrenaline still surging through his system. He peels away the flannel from his face and sobs dryly. He made it. _He made it_. He gulps in the fresh glorious oxygen and lays there. Victorious and alive. 

Man. Breathing is really underrated.

As the adrenaline fades the feeling of his exhausted muscles starting to seize from the cold reminds him that he’s not safe. Not yet. Whoever buried him is still out there somewhere and to be as extreme as knocking him out, putting him in a coffin then tossing said coffin into a hole in the middle of nowhere, it says a lot about their intentions. This perp is _dangerous_ and not knowing them or their motivations is frightening.

Fuck, he needs to get home, somewhere safer. Should probably find the pack. Just, anywhere but here...Where is _here_ anyway?

Covered in a thin layer of leaves, pine needles and dirt, Stiles pushes himself up on trembling arms, the splinters in his hands dig deeper and he winces. His whole body is trembling but he ignores that. Instead, he looks around. It’s dark, really dark. Apparently it’s night now. Squinting into the darkness he can make out the shapes of forestry surrounding him, hopefully it’s the Preserve. Honestly most woods look the same so how's he supposed to know, and in the dark no less? 

With nothing to lose, he starts walking blindly forward, not even glancing at the tunnel he just pulled himself from. Whatever direction he was going in, eventually he had to find a landmark or something, right?

As he carefully trudges on he finally noticed why one of his shoe soles felt thinner than the other. He lost one of his shoes and socks to the ground. How didn’t he notice that earlier? Apparently he’s lost more than a couple of brain cells during this incident. Whatever. He’s not going back to look for it now. Just the thought of going near his potential grave was enough to make his stomach flip-flop.

He walks shivering, wide eyes slowly adjusting to the little light he has. He picks anxiously at the splinters in his palms. He can’t help but feel on edge. He wants to call out for one of the pack or anyone who could help him but it felt too risky. There are no sounds of life anywhere around him, it’s unnerving and all he can do is move forward and hope he doesn’t trip. 

Time is moving slow. Painfully slow. While he makes his way through the forest, but the fresh air has lessened the pounding in his head at least and the trees are easier to see. So as it were, things are looking up despite the sluggish passage of time.

Despite the constant ache coursing throughout his body and the drowsiness weighing his eyelids Stiles doesn’t dare to stop. Not until he was out of the woods. His mind felt numb, and eventually, the only thing floating around his brain was his desire to sink into the covers of his bed and not get up until the next year. 

The sky brightens bit by bit much to the dismay of the dirt-covered escapee. The light sky becomes a constant reminder of his heavy eyelids, every time he blinks they threaten not to open again. His pace during this has slowed into a resigned shuffle, his feet ache and his bare sole stings after treading unknowingly onto roots and sharp stones.

The dawn approaching, and as he shuffles further on he could hear the signs of life return to the woods and he felt less anxious and just over it all.

When he finally stumbles onto the edge of a road he almost missed it in his zombie-like haze. Faltering, when he realises he nearly face plants into the tarmac. Staring at the dark black his head jerks up and absorbs his new surroundings. He _knows_ this road…. This is _fucking Route 115!_

He rubs his eyes hard in astonishment and reabsorbs at his discovery. A rising light and hopeful feeling fills his chest and he vigorously starts down the road with a speedy albeit stilted walk down into the city.

He silently thanks the universe that it is still way too early for most people to be up and about yet. Well, until a man jogs past in jorts, a wifebeater and huge headphones. The sudden appearance of his man makes Stiles practically jump out of his skin. The man looks back over his shoulder at Stiles who stops in his tracks, still startled, and give the filthy teen an equally filthy once-over. 

Frozen in place, Stiles waits for his heart to calm before he regaining his momentum. He wasn’t too far from home now and his desire for a boiling shower and his bed was growing every step of the way. 

Walking down his street Stiles is walking slowly again, his previous vigour has stolen what energy he had left and he nearly cries when he spots his house. Getting closer, he takes a proper look at his home. He pauses, confused.

“Wh-at…? My jeep?” Staring at the blue vehicle, the only vehicle in his drive, Stiles holds back. He does not remember having driven it back home. Moving closer with his curiosity bubbling up he peers inside his beloved Jeep. Everything appeared to be normal. It’s not like he even remembers that much so he could’ve driven it back and not remembered. Makes sense right? Well it did to Stiles, at least until he saw his keys sitting on the driver’s seat front and centre. It looks neatly left. _Purposeful_.

Cautiously he tests the door handle. It’s unlocked. He carefully picks up the keys and glances around his surroundings. Nothing else appears out of place or suspiciously in place in this case. 

Deciding to just get inside, Stiles walks up to his house door, which thankfully, was still locked. Slipping inside Stiles locks the door behind him and just chucks the keys onto the counter. 

With his Dad seemingly still at work, Stiles proceeds to shakily walk up the stairs. Finally in the door, he closes his door behind him and stumbles onto his bed. A long exhausted sigh escapes him. Fuck showering, his immediate need for sleep is way more important right now. 

Falling into dreamless sleep almost instantly, he never even sees his phone, sat plugged innocently on his bedside table, and he never hears the ding of a new notification.

 _“A thrilling escape Mieczyslaw,_ _I hope you continue to excite me.”_

**_fin_ **

**Author's Note:**

> This was birthed in a sleep-deprived haze but it was a lot of fun lol the editing after tho was not as fun and  
> unfortunately during the edits, I had to let go of the golden line,  
> 'He imagines the sensation might be similar to a sausage vacuum-sealed in thick pudding' truly tragic  
> Anyways, thanks for reading and I'd love to hear some feedback ;)


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